


MacGyver - MacGyver

by Emachinescat



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Bad Father, Drama, Episode Tag, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mac Whump, MacGyver + MacGyver AU Tag, S02E23, macgyver whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 18:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20086576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: Jonah Walsh isn't stupid. After watching James MacGyver's back for so many years, he knows when his former partner is trying to pull one over on him, and he's certainly not above hurting James's kid to get what he wants. A whumpier - and probably more realistic - AU of 2x23.





	1. Chapter 1

Despite his hulkish size and brutish appearance, Jonah Walsh was not a stupid man. People often assumed that he was below average intelligence - especially when he had been teamed up with The Brains, who made everyone look stupid by comparison - but he was certainly smarter than others gave him credit for. After all, he wouldn't have been able to plot and connive right under James's nose, or to go into business for himself, or to draw his old partner out and lure him into this elaborate trap, if he weren't intelligent.

Walsh didn't mind people underestimating his brains, though. He used to bristle at it, back in his overwatch days - being the muscles to someone else's brain had a way of making one feel inferior after a while, especially when most people praised the brain and looked down on the muscle. But now… now, Walsh saw being underestimated as an advantage. It made people let their guard down, speak more freely in front of him… and when he proved to them that he wasn't just the Hulk but had a side of Bruce too, it was positively delicious to prove himself and bring his judges down, notch by notch.

It was happening again. James's arrogance had either tripled since they'd parted ways, or he'd forgotten how closely he had worked with Walsh back in the day, how well Walsh knew him, and how Walsh wasn't nearly as stupid as people assumed. Whatever the reason, Walsh could hardly believe the man now, spouting off some nonsense about how he needed an extra set of hands attached to a person who was smart enough to help him with the serum. Honestly, Walsh couldn't blame him for trying, but it was so obvious what James was doing.

Throwing out a snarky insult on the state of the lab, trying to direct any ire Walsh might have in his direction away from his kid.

Wielding his inflated sense of importance and intelligence in assuming that no one in the compound had any idea of how anything in this lab worked, all to establish dominance as the smartest person - and therefore, the most important person - in the room.

Claiming to need another set of hands and specifying that since no one in the compound is smart enough to even be in the same room as the great James MacGyver, there's only one set of hands that will do the trick, attempting to get Walsh to bring his kid in that door and give Mini-Mac, who has already proven to have his dad's brains, maybe then some, access to the dangerous chemicals that would be all too easy to mix up and use to orchestrate an escape.

And Walsh was supposed to fall for this load of BS?

Yeah, right.

Still, he wasn't heartless. He'd bring the kid in here. But not for the reason James had in mind. No, Walsh himself had another use for the kid.

Thinking about it, maybe he was heartless, after all.

Smirking, he allowed his deep voice to rumble in the direction of the open door, all while maintaining eye contact with his ex-partner.

"Bring in baby boy!"

* * *

James dragged his gaze from Walsh's to assess his son as Walsh's men dragged Angus into the room. After a quick once-over, James saw that the kid was fine, just a little rumpled from being searched and manhandled. There was no need to ask him if he was okay, then. Showing concern would make James himself appear weak to Walsh, and by proxy would make Angus more of a target. So he just sent a brief nod his son's way and turned back to Walsh.

"All right, Jonah, Angus and I will get started whenever you're ready." It was a forced-polite way to say, "Tell your man to get his paws off the kid."

Walsh didn't move. The only thing that changed was his expression, as he allowed an unsettling smile to twist his lips. "You're really not as bright as you lead everyone to believe, are you, James?" Walsh taunted.

"What are you talking about, Jonah? I said I'll make the damn serum; if you want me to get it done within your time frame, you need to let my son help and get yourself out of my hair."

"I know you don't need a second set of hands there, Brainiac," Walsh sneered, and despite his cool facade, James felt his heart speed up. "I recognize what you're trying to pull. You forget how long I worked with you, standing over your shoulder, watching you wheedle and trick and science your way out of unwanted situations. You didn't think I'd recognize it if you tried to pull one over on me?"

With a dark chuckle that nearly made James falter in his stoic resolve, Walsh took a deliberate step towards Angus. He addressed the kid in a tone that could almost pass for fatherly, if not for the gleam in his eyes and muscles coiled for action. "If you were my kid, I would never have left you. Bright kid like you… I'd'a stuck around, nurtured you, spent time with you, watched to see what you'd become." The pseudo-kind voice took on a dark and dangerous edge. "To have your old man leave you like that, no goodbye… kid, that must'a been a punch in the gut."

With that, he buried his fist in the kid's stomach. James watched, tense, as Angus doubled over in agony, gasping. Walsh didn't give him much of a reprieve, because moments later his meaty hand was meshed in Angus's hair, yanking his head up. James watched, transfixed and helpless, as his son's neck, exposed and completely vulnerable, bobbed as he swallowed.

"Now," Walsh said, all illusions of niceties gone now, "let's get one thing straight, James. Whatever escape plan you were concocting with your boy, you're going to forget it, now. In fact, you're going to stop thinking of escape plans all together. You're going to make that formula. I watched the last guy, before, ya know, I killed him, and I have a pretty good idea of what's right and wrong. So if I get any inkling that you're doing anything other than making the serum, if you hesitate or argue, I'm going to hurt baby boy here. Do we have a deal?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I don't own MacGyver, or Captain America, or Taken. Really wish I owned the first one especially - there'd be far more whump, h/c, and Mac and Jack bromance. :)

Mac was pissed. Pissed at Walsh for being a creepy, sadistic SOB. Pissed at his father for, well, a whole hell of a lot, to be honest. For leaving, no matter his self-placating justifications, for dictating his entire life, for being so close for so many years without ever attempting contact, for claiming he wanted to protect his son but then also claiming to have guided him into the same dangerous occupation, for being so smart but so incredibly stupid when it came to what should have really mattered, for being arrogant and rude, and for being so preoccupied by his own hunt - and patting himself so heartily on the back for having tracked down his old partner - that he didn't even suspect it might be a trap…

He realized distractedly that he was far more angry at his father than at the man holding both of them captive, trying to force James to finish the twisted Captain America serum. There was a lot wrong with that, he realized, a lot he did not have time to unpack, as his hair was finally released from Walsh's vice grip and he was shoved to a chair that one of Walsh's goons had brought into the room. Sick and tired of having someone else's hands on him, Mac struggled with every ounce of strength he had. When he glanced over and saw his father watching the scene passively, it was like something possessed him. Pissed off turned to enraged in a handful of seconds, and all the hurt that Mac had been struggling so hard to contain over a decade came flooding back.

Fueled by what he would realize later was an irrational amount of rage directed at the wrong person given the circumstances, Mac fought fiercer and harder than he ever had before. He barely registered what he was doing as he bucked and twisted against his attackers. He had been so complacent before, worried that his father would be punished if he resisted, but now he realized two things: One, that his father hadn't shown him an ounce of concern in over fifteen years, so Mac's worry about his father's health was obviously one-sided, and two, Walsh needed something from his father, not from him, and had made it very clear that Mac was to be used as leverage. If he needed to worry about anyone's safety, it was his own.

Mac managed to get a hand free and punched one of his captors in the side of the head so hard that Mac felt two of his knuckles bust and the man he'd hit slumped bonelessly to the ground. With a grim smile, Mac thought that Jack would be proud.

His victory was short-lived, however - at this point, Walsh himself decided to get involved. The enormous beast of a man towered over Mac, and despite the growing dread in his gut, Mac stood his ground. He looked Walsh right in the eye and smirked, "You got the wrong leverage, man. If you know my dad as well as you say you do, you should know that he's not going to do what you say no matter what you do to me. His work is his number one priority, not me."

Mac didn't look away from Walsh, but he felt his father's eyes on him. Part of him imagined - hoped for, perhaps - a hurt, even ashamed expression, but he knew the far more likely reality was that his father was stone-faced, maybe even giving a curt nod of agreement.

Walsh smirked, leaning over, bearing down on Mac, and sneered, "Well, I guess we're finally going to see just how much your old man values you, then." Without warning, Walsh struck like a viper as he head-butted his captive in the forehead.

It could have only been a handful of seconds later when Mac came to, because as awareness slowly began to return to him - along with a concussion-grade headache - he was just being lifted from the ground and shoved into a chair near the center of the room. He groaned, but wasn't cognizant enough to fight his captors, and found himself unwillingly but limply allowing his wrists to be tied with something thin - wire? - to the arms of the chair. His head began to clear as his feet were tied to the front chair legs, and instinctively he yanked his wrists against the restraints, looking for any slack.

Pain shot through his wrists, agony tore through every nerve as he pulled against the wire, and he watched, grinding his teeth against the pain, as the wire somehow sank into his flesh and blood welled up around it. He stared transfixed, still too dazed from the head injury to understand right away what he was dealing with. It slowly sunk in, even as he heard his father's voice, not angry, not emotional, just calm and logical and infuriating, murmuring to someone in the background.

Razor wire.

Panting through his nose against the pain, Mac raised his eyes to meet those of his antagonizer. Jonah Walsh smiled darkly down at him, obviously relishing in the agony he saw in the sweat-tinged face, bloodied wrists, and gritted teeth of his captive. "I had to be safe," Walsh told Mac conversationally, and it struck Mac yet again how terrifying this beast of a man was - perhaps the scariest thing about him was the way that he acted and spoke in such a sinisterly familial way. "After all, if you're anything like your old man, then you can probably wiggle your way out of pretty much anything. Razor wire is a sure-fire way that you won't be able to just Houdini your way out of this. The more you struggle, the deeper you cut, and the deeper you cut, the more blood you lose. And the more blood you lose..." He considered Mac for a moment that lasted just a bit too long, and then remarked amicably, "You seem like a real smart kid. See if you can guess what comes next."

Refusing to play into Walsh's manipulative games, Mac merely stared sullenly back at the man, refusing to answer the patronizing question. When Walsh grew impatient, he backhanded Mac sharply across the face. His entire left side singing in agonizing harmony with the rest of his skull, Mac tasted blood at the corner of his mouth but didn't respond other than to continue glaring at Walsh.

Rolling his eyes, Walsh nodded to one of his henchmen that Mac had quite honestly forgotten were in the room. The goon pointed his gun at James MacGyver's head.

Mac's heart sped up at the sight of his father's peril, but he remembered two things that put him at ease: One, Walsh needed his father, so he wasn't going to kill him. Two, his father had barely reacted when his son had been used against him. Perhaps that was in an attempt to keep Mac safe, like he claimed all of his absences to be, but even still, bitterness lodged in Mac's heart, a feeling that was once quite foreign to him but that had become a more constant companion since the search for his father had begun - and even more when it had ended. His father didn't care about him. Why should he care what happened to his father?

Mac answered his own question instantly with a surge of guilt. Because he wasn't his father, that was why. He wasn't going to let the man's lack of compassion change who he was as a person. Mac was stronger than that. He was better than that.

Still, he reminded Walsh in a voice raspy with pain, "You're not going to kill him. You need him."

Rage flashed across Walsh's face, and for a second, Mac braced himself, certain he was going to be hit again. Instead, Walsh took the gun from his henchman and pointed it at James MacGyver's shoulder. "A clean hit through and through isn't going to kill him. It might slow him down, but I've seen him do what needs to be done with more damage than a flesh wound." His gaze found Mac's and the rage Mac saw there caused the cliche chill to travel down his spine. "Now answer," Walsh growled, "The damn. Question." He cocked the gun, keeping it trained at Mac's dad.

Mac knew that Walsh didn't care at all about the question - what question was it again? His head was swimming; he certainly had a concussion and the pain in his wrists coupled with the blood loss wasn't helping - but that all of this, this prolonged, ridiculous spitting contest, was a play for power. He'd seen his father do similar things before, but Walsh's violent, unstable tendencies made him a real threat instead of just a nuisance. Unfortunately, those violent, unstable tendencies coupled with his obvious need to control put Mac's father in jeopardy, and as little as the man seemed to care about his son, Mac had already resolved that he couldn't just stand - sit … well, slump painfully - here and let something happen to his dad.

And so, though he hated himself and Walsh and his father and this whole messed up situation with every word, he conceded, nodding his head curtly in acquiescence, nausea boiling at the movement. Definitely a concussion, then.

Thankfully his scrambled brain was able to recall the question that started this whole insane deviation: The more you struggle, the deeper you cut, and the deeper you cut, the more blood you lose. And the more blood you lose… You seem like a real smart kid. See if you can guess what comes next.

"The more blood I lose," Mac gritted, "the more I weaken myself. So struggling will actually make it more impossible to escape, and I also lower my chances for survival and increase the chances of infection." He felt dirty for having given in to Walsh's twisted demands, but the gun was taken off his dad, so he breathed easier.

What could almost pass for a genuine smile save for the malice lurking beneath the surface split Walsh's face. Looking at Mac, he asked patronizingly, "See, kiddo, was that so hard?" Anger boiled to the surface, but before Mac could say anything to get himself hurt even worse, Walsh turned to James with a wicked, even predatory, glint in his eyes. "That is what real parenting looks like, Big Mac. 'Course I wouldn't expect you to know that, since you so happily skipped out on that part of your life."

For the first time since he'd been head-butted, Mac caught his father's eyes. Despite the even expression on the older man's face, Mac could see something bubbling behind those dark, sharp eyes - anger? hatred? guilt?

"You know," Walsh said slowly, advancing on Mac now, obviously enjoying the power he held over his enemy and his son, "when I first found out about how you just… left little Mac, I couldn't believe it. I mean, imagining that sweet kid growing up without a father figure … You know, a couple of times I thought about taking up that role myself, but I wasn't sure I'd be daddy material, you know…? Not that stopped you from becoming a dad."

An icy finger traced itself down Mac's back as he realized the implications of what Jonah Walsh was implying. Had he really considered kidnapping a young Mac just to get to his father? To prove some sort of a point? Just because he could? The idea of what his life could have become if that had happened made Mac nauseated in a way a concussion never could. He didn't know if Walsh was telling the truth or just trying to rattle their cages, but Mac couldn't help but wonder if his father would have gone Liam Neeson on Walsh to get his son back.

Walsh's next words stole any thoughts of the what-ifs of the past from Mac's aching head: "I might even have to consider taking up that father role after all this is over, depending on how well you two behave." Cracking his knuckles, he handed off the gun to his conscious goon, then stepped toward Mac. "Now," he threw over his shoulder at James, "get to work."

The threat was clear and obvious, and Mac had never felt so helpless. He was truly trapped, perhaps for the first time in his life, unable to even struggle without hurting himself so badly that even if he were to somehow free himself he still might not make it, being used as leverage by a sadistic bastard who was also using his father against him to further discourage escape, and even if his dad gave Walsh what he wanted, Walsh might just take Mac with him to play with further, just to spite a dad who hadn't cared enough to be present during most of his life…

Mac was used to being able to get out of any situation, to being able to rely only on himself, to have his life in his own hands.

His life was now in the hands of three men, none of them his own: Walsh, who literally had the power of life and death over him right now; his father, who had to choose between his son and countless lives, and who, despite their rocky relationship, Mac didn't blame at all for the decision he would inevitably make; and Jack Dalton, who currently was clearing the area but blissfully unaware of the level of peril his partner was currently in.

And yet, Mac realized, as he prepared himself for what was to come, he trusted Jack with his life more than anyone else's - even his own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be finishing up pretty soon. This isn't a very "plotty" story, after all - it's pretty much just episode deviation with the intent to whump. :D
> 
> WARNING: Speaking of whump, it gets pretty intense at one point in this chapter, almost enough for me to want to rate it higher, but I think it's okay. It's not terribly graphic, but it's definitely disturbing, to say the least. Just wanted to put a little warning out there.

James MacGyver was reminded with each passing second why he left his son in the first place - to keep him safe. A small part of him, perhaps the remnant of what might have once been a conscience and that sounded strangely like his son's voice, doubted this reasoning he'd repeated to himself every day since he'd left Angus - _maybe it wasn't for_ him, _maybe it was for_ you, the voice said, like it had every day since he'd left his son. But like he had done every day, James MacGgyver swiftly drowned out the voice that might have been guilt for past actions with what some might have called self-righteous rhetoric. He called it the truth.

_I left him because this might happen,_ he told the voice._ I left to protect him._

_If that's so, why is it still happening now?_ asked that inner voice.

_Because I'm back in his life,_ James reasoned. _Because I let him come with me. I _did_ protect him from this by leaving._

_But are you going to leave again once this is over?_ The voice reminded him of Mac again, disappointed.

He knew the answer: probably not.

_If so,_ that treacherous inner voice said, t_hen his safety and happiness must not be first, after all. And again: Maybe it wasn't for _him_, maybe it was for _you_._

This time, the voice wasn't so easy to drown out, but he managed it anyway - just barely.

At the sound of flesh striking flesh and the subsequent sound wheezing for air, everything was drowned out - inner voice, everything - and instead of waxing philosophical, he was forced to confront once again the situation he was in. Walsh wasn't letting him escape into his own head.

* * *

Mac was sure he had been in this much pain before… at some point. He'd had the crap beaten out of him plenty of times. He'd been drugged, kidnapped, and roughed up by Murdoc before. He'd been tortured a couple of times, but the only thing that seemed to hold a candle to now was his time in El Noche's compound, and although that had been absolute hell, he couldn't remember having to deal with this all-consuming agony for such a long stretch of time.

His wrists were the worst, bleeding freely, the razor wire embedded so deeply into them that he feared they'd be stopped by bone soon. He'd tried to remain still, and had done a fair job of it during the beating, clinging on to the ends of the chair's arms, his knuckles white as Walsh and his goons took turns throwing punches. Walsh's fists were like battering rams, but the henchman that Mac had knocked out earlier clearly had a bone to pick and was taking extreme pleasure in punching in the exact same places Walsh had just frequented.

When the knife came out of Walsh's pocket - that was when Mac truly feared that he would be unable to control the desperate jerking of his arms with each fresh cut. At first, Mac started upon seeing the blade of the large red Swiss Army Knife flip out, his concussed and pain-addled brain thinking, He's got a knife like mine!

It was only as Jonah Walsh prowled closer, slowly, deliberately, that he realized the horrifying truth - it was his knife. Walsh was going to torture him with his own knife, the knife that had saved his life more times than he could count. And even though it wasn't the same knife that Grandpa Harry had given him all those years ago, this newer knife still held the spirit of what his knife was supposed to be - used to help, not to harm.

It was going to be turned against him.

Walsh gave Mac's dad another chance before he started using the knife. "James. I have no desire to do this to your boy. After all, I still think I could've been the dad you never were. But you're leaving me no choice."

Mac, through vision hazy with pain, saw a look on his father's face he'd never witnessed before. He couldn't put a finger on it. Distressed? Desperate? Was he about to give in?

As much as Mac didn't want to be tortured with his own knife, he knew that so many people would suffer if Walsh was allowed to finish his formula. He steeled himself, prepared to tell his dad no, don't give in, when the expression disappeared and his dad shook his head.

"Well, kid," Walsh said, "just remember, it's not me who's doin' this to you - not really. Your old man's the one who's putting you through this." He paused, tapping the end of the blade against his chin as if in deep thought. "I'll make sure you don't forget it, okay, sport?" Mac's stomach flipped, and despite all his training, Mac in that moment just wanted to go home, didn't want to be strong. More than anything, he wanted Jack. But he stuck out his jaw defiantly, which was the perfect opportunity for one of Walsh's thugs to shove a gag in his mouth and tie it around the back of his head. Taken completely off guard, Mac tried to shake the gag off but to no avail. He glared up at Walsh, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

"Sorry, kid, but this could get loud, and I know your watch dog Dalton is around here somewhere… we don't want him to hear the pup crying and come to save the day, 'specially since Dad's not taking his job very seriously right now. Don't want him to get one-upped by Dalton, do we?"

Mac saw his dad take a step forward, anger for once showing on his face. "Ah, ah, ah," warned Walsh. "You come at me, the kid starts losing fingers."

He then strode forward. Mac winced as the knife was thrust forward, but Walsh was just using it to cut down the length of Mac's shirt, from collar to hem. Mac shivered. His ears buzzed, and though it looked like his father's mouth was moving, Mac couldn't tell what he was saying.

He felt hot breath on his skin as Walsh leaned in and started cutting.

Then all he felt was pain.

Walsh cut for quite some time, not deeply, but painfully, small but fiery cuts bunched close together on Mac's chest. Though he tried not to show his pain, muffled screams got caught in the folds of the gag. Mac's chest heaved, his arms jerked against the razor wire, which sent molten agony through his wrists, and Walsh just kept cutting.

* * *

James MacGyver wasn't sure when he started yelling. Perhaps it was the first muffled shout from beneath the gag. Maybe it was even before that, when he saw what Walsh was going to use on his son.

He definitely was yelling when Walsh finally stepped back to reveal his handiwork, and James saw his son, wrists bleeding dangerously fast, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, agony written on his face…

And on his chest…

James nearly threw up as he saw the spectacle that decorated his boy's chest, framed on either side by his collarbone.

He couldn't give Walsh what he wanted. But this was… this was too much. Even for him.

"Okay!" he screamed, remembering Walsh's concerns about Angus screaming earlier and hoping to any deity who might be listening that Dalton was close enough to hear him. "Okay," he said, and he saw his son's head inch up marginally at his acquiescence, the tiniest of shakes - he was still holding firm? How was his son this good? - but he repeated, "Okay," then gritted out, "I'll do it."

"Excellent," Walsh grinned as he tossed the bloody knife on the floor and strode to the table of chemicals. His gun was aimed at James's head. "Get to work, and we'll let the kiddo rest." His eyes glinted with a darkness so cruel that James couldn't believe he hadn't seen it when they were partners.

Even as he set to work, he knew that he would never, ever, even if they both somehow made it out of this alive, be able to erase the image of his son's chest out of his mind, raw, red, and bloody, with two words cruelly etched into the skin with his son's own tool:

_Love, Dad._


	4. Chapter 4

Jack Dalton didn't know what he expected when he burst into the room. Knowing Mac, probably the kid sciencing it up or out-talking some bad guy, maybe even the head honcho Walsh himself. Maybe he expected Mac Senior to be ignoring his son and doing something heartless yet brilliant in the name of justice … he might still be just a bit bitter about all that James MacGyver had done, leaving his kid, abandoning his family, stringing him along, then manipulating his life from the background. Jack wasn't an expert on much of anything, but what he did know was daddies, and what made a good one. His pop had been the cream of the crop. Mac's, well… let's just say, he had failed to impress.

Where was he?

Right. Jack wasn't sure what to expect when he crashed in - literally - through one of the windows. He might have had certain ideas of what he might find, based on past experiences, but he'd also realized that it might not be great - after all, he'd been on his way to bust in anyway after taking out Walsh's goons when he heard a yell of rage coming from his destination. He couldn't be certain who it had come from - all he knew was that it wasn't Mac; he knew the kid's voice too well - so it could've meant anything. Best case scenario, he figured it was Walsh, angry and humiliated at having been taken down by a boy genius. Worst case scenario…

Well, even though Jack didn't really have any clear expectations on what he was going to find when he busted in, even the worst case scenario he could have come up with was nothing - nothing! - compared to the reality that faced him upon his entrance.

He couldn't say who was more shocked - Walsh, looming over Mac, a bloody blade at his feet, and his goons, who had obviously underestimated Jack and hadn't expected him to survive long enough to attempt a rescue, or himself, at the stomach-turning scene in front of him. All he did know is that despite the rage and disgust boiling in his gut, despite the utter wrongness, despite the shock at seeing something that he would do anything - anything - to undo, Jack was good at overcoming surprise. And his one quick look around the room gave him ample reason and motivation to act. And ultimately, the most surprised award went to Walsh, at the exact moment the bullet hit him right between the eyes. Jack took out one of the goons, and was turning to take care of the other, but found him sprawled on the floor, skin smoking and burning, having been taken out by a chemical to the face, thrown there by none other than James MacGyver. So the guy had some use, after all.

The second every threat in the room had been neutralized, both men raced across the room to MacGyver.

Jack got there first.

The kid looked even worse up close. He was unconscious, head lolling limply, chin resting on his chest. There was blood - a lot of blood - in his hair, smeared on his face, mingling with bruises already starting to turn ugly colors, and his wrists - God, let him be okay, Jack prayed, heart pounding furiously against his ribs. His wrists were swollen, inflamed, and oozing blood that coated the kid's hands and dripped down the arm of the chair and pooled on the floor. They looked like they'd been slit. Upon further inspection, Jack saw that the kid had been tightly bound to the chair with razor wire, which was embedded so deeply Jack thought he could see a hint of bone. From a distance, he'd been able to make out blood on Mac's chest, too, but now that he was closer, he could see that his kid hadn't just been tortured with randomly placed cuts - instead, words had been etched into his skin, a grotesque banner proudly announcing Walsh's sick cruelty.

"_Love Dad_?" Jack growled, the sound feral, rising from deep within his gut.

"That bastard was trying to get to me," James MacGyver said as a way of explanation. "Trying to convince Angus that I was doing this to him by refusing to make his super soldier serum."

Jack filed this away for the time being, focused only on helping the kid. He tossed his radio to his boss. "Call Matty," he ordered tersely. "Tell her we need a MedEvac now, and that Walsh is dead."

He glanced over to see Mac's dad glaring at him. It struck him that he was ordering is boss around. It also struck him that he didn't care. "Please," he ground out. "Just… just do it." He could have done it himself, he knew that. But that would have meant leaving Mac, letting someone else begin the grueling process of freeing him, and even though his soul was ripped further with every second that he continued to look at his kid, Jack couldn't leave him. Not now. That the other man was Mac's biological father meant nothing in this situation. Jack had been the one who was always there for Mac.

Thankfully, James MacGyver didn't argue. He turned his back on the grisly scene of his son and started speaking into the radio, voice tense but measured.

Jack didn't even know where to begin. "Aw, kid," he breathed as Mac's face pinched in pain. Jack gently removed the gag from his kid's mouth, grimacing at the blood staining it.

To both his relief, and his horror, Mac's eyes opened just enough for Jack to see bright blue crescents. He breathed Jack's name more than spoke it, his voice weak, full of anguish, but it was also the greatest thing Jack Dalton had ever heard.

"Hey, bud," he whispered. He could hear in the background Oversight talking to Matty. He couldn't understand the words over the blood pumping in his ears, rage and hurt and about a billion other emotions boiling it into a dangerous soup of emotion. He could, however, understand Mac, even though the kid barely had enough strength to form the words. Jack could always understand MacGyver; words were optional.

"_Dad_?" Mac whispered as Jack examined the razor wire closer - yep, that was definitely bone he could see.

Before Jack could answer, James MacGyver was kneeling down beside him, taking in his son's horrific state. "I'm here, Angus," he said. "I'm fine."

"Good," Mac managed, his breath hitching in pain as the first wire was cut free and it shifted slightly. Good lord, the wire was buried so deep. Maybe he should wait for Medical to get here. Even with on-field medical training he had, Jack felt over his head here.

"MedEvac is on its way," James said tersely. "Leave that alone, Dalton, and let the professionals handle it."

If Mac hadn't been strapped to a chair with wire that was literally slicing him like an apple (and now, with that metaphor his frantic mind cooked up, Jack was never eating apples again), and if he hadn't been looking at Jack for support, for help, for guidance, Jack would have decked James MacGyver in the face in that instant. Instead, he shot a death glare at Oversight and snapped, "I've got this," and then focused every bit of his attention on his charge.

"Paramedics are on their way," Jack soothed, cupping Mac's face as his head lolled to the side. "Just hang on, bud."

"_Walsh_?" Mac murmured, his lips barely moving. His face was stark white. Jack knew what Oversight had said, but they couldn't wait for Medical. Mac had already lost far too much blood.

He ripped off his jacket, grabbed his knife, and cut the thing in half in a matter of seconds.. "Son of a bitch is dead," he ground out. In a softer tone, he added, "This is going to hurt, bud. I want to wait for the professionals, but I don't think we can risk it."

The corner of Mac's mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. "_Trust you,_" he whispered, and Jack felt fresh tears roll down his face. He loved his kid so damn much.

"Here goes," he warned, heart pounding at what he was about to do. Mac had passed out again. But when Jack pressed each half of his jacket to Mac's shredded wrists, Mac still screamed, and it still made Jack want to kill Walsh all over again.

* * *

"Coffee?"

Jack turned to see Riley at the door of Mac's hospital room at Phoenix, holding two Styrofoam cups in perfectly manicured hands. She proffered one to Jack. "You look like you need it."

Jack stood up, glancing with tired eyes at the empty hospital bed, and tried to still the shaking in his hands. As he took the coffee, he asked, "You're not going to tell me to go home and get rest like every other person in this damn place has been doing in the last 48 hours?"

Riley smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. They seemed darker than normal, somehow, and she radiated stress. "I thought about it, but I know it's pointless. You're not leaving this joint until Mac does, or until you're literally dragged out."

Jack downed the lukewarm coffee in two gulps, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ha. No one's gotten brave enough to try that yet."

Riley gave a half-hearted chuckle. Then she sobered. "We're all worried about him, you know."

"Yeah, course I know, Riles."

"Even Oversight."

Jack grunted.

"I know you don't like him, Jack, but…"

"But what, Riles?"

"But he's Mac's dad."

"So?" Jack spat. "He's also the bastard who abandoned the kid, strung him along, then dragged him into this whole mess and didn't stop Mac from being… from being, well, you know-" The image of Mac in that chair, blood everywhere, sick carving in his chest assaulted his memory.

"He did what he had to," Riley intoned, but she didn't really sound like she meant it. "I mean, people's lives were at stake if he'd done what Walsh wanted him to do." She sounded a little more sincere now.

"But Mac-"

"Mac wanted him to stay strong, to refuse," Riley pointed out. "He didn't want Oversight to give in."

"That's just convection," Jack snapped.

"You mean conjecture?"

"Whatever. You and Mac, always correcting your elder. Disrespectful." The banter was somewhat loosening the vise on his heart. Riley snickered. "But seriously, Riles. We just have Oversight's word for that."

Riley considered this, taking a slow sip of her coffee. "No, I think we have Mac's entire character to back up his word, Jack. You know Mac would do anything to protect others. You know Oversight did the right thing, even if it sucked _so_ hard."

"He could have tried harder to find another way around it," Jack said sullenly. "Mac always does."

"Maybe." Riley sighed, wrapping the arm not holding coffee around her middle.

Jack scrubbed a calloused hand down his face. "I just need to talk to him, you know? Hear it from Mac himself."

Jack hadn't spoken to MacGyver since the kid's barely lucid moment in the chair. He'd been rushed by helicopter to the nearest hospital, where he'd been given an emergency blood transfusion and stabilized before being airlifted back to Phoenix. He'd been running a slight fever the whole time, but they'd finally stabilized that to rush him into reconstructive surgery for his wrists.

Prognosis was hopeful. As long as he didn't develop infection in any of his many wounds and lacerations, he should be okay. His chest would probably not scar, since he received such prompt and precise treatment, though it was always a possibility. Wait and see, they'd said. But his wrists … they were bad. Real bad. Severed, basically, from the top to the bone by the razor wire. Nerve damage. Ligament damage. Reconstruction was urgent, they'd said, so they'd rushed him back as soon as they were able.

That's where Mac was right now. He was in an operating room, having his wrists put back together like Humpty Dumpty when he fell off that stupid wall. _I shoulda been there to catch him when he fell,_ Jack thought, his chest feeling like it would split from the guilt.

They said that they were cautiously hopeful that Mac would regain mobility and function of his hands again. It was even possible that he could get all of his dexterity back, like none of this ever happened, but it was a long shot. Nerve damage wasn't easy to fix. His hands could be changed, broken, in some way, forever. And Mac's hands, well, they were his job. Of course, his big brain was, too, but his hands were also always moving, always building, always doing something. If he lost the use of his hands, or even some of that dexterity, it would devastate him.

Riley put a hand on Jack's shoulder. "He'll be okay, Jack. He's Mac. He'll jump right back up from this, like he always does." It sounded more like a plea than a reassurance, a plea for him to reassure her.

And Jack remembered then that he wasn't the only one who loved Mac. And Mac wasn't the only one who needed him, either. "C'mere, Riles," he said, opening his arms up. Riley rushed into his embrace and he held her close. He felt her shaking with repressed sobs. She was so strong, but she didn't always have to be. He wished she knew that.

"It's okay, baby girl," he said. "Mac's gonna be fine. I promise."

And somehow, this time, when he said it, Jack actually believed it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed, reviewed, given kudos to, and even just read this story! I know that it took much longer to finish than it should have, and I am so thankful for the patience of everyone who stuck with it to the end! I definitely want to write more fics for this show in the future, and this was an amazing first venture into the fandom.
> 
> Quick note: I am neither a doctor nor a psychologist, nor a physical therapist. I'm relying on some of my own personal experiences as a patient as well as internet research, my undergrad psychology class, and perhaps a little creative liberty for this chapter. Please know that I tried to be as accurate as possible while still moving the story along, and forgive any mistakes!
> 
> And now, here's the conclusion to the story. I hope you enjoy! Please let me know your thoughts!

When he woke up, MacGyver was assaulted by a wave of pure terror before his eyes even had a chance to open. He didn't know why, but he was _scared_. His mind was foggy, distant, almost like it belonged to someone else and he was peering in from the outside. He hated that feeling, but that wasn't what incited the fear.

He couldn't remember where he was, what had happened, or why he would wake feeling so afraid. MacGyver knew that if he just forced his eyes to open, he would probably see something that would trigger his memory. But he was too scared to open his eyes. Despite the fear, he wanted to stay where he was, because he wasn't ready to face whatever had happened.

Maybe he could just slip back to where he had been, the darkness, and stay there a while. He could go back to sleep and feel nothing and dream nothing and maybe when he woke again, the fear would be gone, and all of this would be a dream - whatever _this_ was.

But that was when he heard the voice. "Mac? Are you awake?"

It was Jack. He sounded exhausted, drained dry, and more scared than Mac had heard in a long, long time - maybe ever. But the pull of the darkness was so compelling, and he was so tired, and the fear was receding - maybe in the wake of unconsciousness, maybe at the reassurance that Jack was there, somewhere, with him.

_No,_ Mac wanted to say. _Just a few more minutes, and I'll be up._

He had almost drifted off into oblivion when Jack spoke again, his voice hoarse and hollow. "C'mon, bud. They're sayin' that you're healin' up pretty good, and that you're almost out of the woods. And they want me to go home, rest, but I can't. I can't until I've seen you awake, 'til I've heard your voice. I know they know what they're doin', kid, but I can't believe them until I _talk _to you, and you talk back. _Please, kid._"

The raw desperation in his partner's voice was what wrenched Mac out of the siren call of sleep. Jack _needed_ him. And Jack faced fear and death and injury every single day to protect Mac. Even if it meant facing whatever terror had clutched at his soul when he first regained awareness, even if it meant remembering what had happened, even if it meant having to deal with it, Mac had to do it. Jack was always there for Mac. Now it was Mac's turn to be there for him.

It took all of Mac's willpower and strength to claw his way up from the semi-comfortable state he'd settled into, and even more determination to force his eyes open a crack. It wasn't, however, nearly as hard as he'd thought it would be to twitch his fingers, move his hand, reach out and touch Jack's hand. "J'k…"

The unadulterated joy and relief in Jack's smile was worth the effort.

* * *

It took about twenty-four hours for Mac to wake up completely, and to be lucid enough to hold any kind of a conversation. He would wake up, always seek out Jack, then drift back into a semi-drugged state. He was on a morphine pump at the moment, but the sedative had been lifted.

When he did finally wake up enough to talk back to Jack, it was clear that the kid was very confused, that his memory was spotty at best when it came to the hell he'd been put through. Weird, though, because the more lucid he became in his waking hours, the more disturbed he'd become when he was asleep. Nightmares plagued him, sending his heart rate soaring, the machines surrounding him beeping erratically, and Jack didn't know what was waking the kid up - the nightmares, or the machines. But after Jack would rub small circles on Mac's back, reassuring him that he was safe, that no one was going to hurt him again, and after Mac had calmed down, he still didn't remember. That both terrified and relieved Jack.

"You don't remember anything? Anything at all?" Jack clarified for what seemed like the billionth time, about a week after Mac had woken up for real. He'd just finished another round of physical therapy for his hands, and though he was still experiencing difficulties with his fine motor skills, getting his fingers to obey exactly what his brian was telling them to do, the physical therapist was pleasantly surprised and said that Mac was doing very well for all the trauma he'd been through.

"It's early," he'd said to Mac, who may have looked composed to the therapist, but Jack could tell that the kid was barely holding it together. The thought of losing any of the functions of his hands was unthinkable to MacGyver. "I don't want to give false hope, Mr. MacGyver, but with how far you've come in such a short time, I would say it is very possible that your hands may be able to heal completely." That had set Mac at ease a bit, but Jack was still concerned.

"No," Mac sighed, frustration evident.

"How long do these _fugie_ things last, anyway?"

Mac quirked a half smile that didn't quite reach his eyes at Jack's butchering of the word. "_Fugue state_, Jack. And it varies. After all, this happens when something traumatic causes a person to repress a memory. Depending on the memory, the trauma, and on the person, that memory could come back on its own, or it could never come back. And trying to force it could cause irreversible damage, even the loss of that person's identity. They can regress back into childhood, become a completely different person… The mind's fragile, and we still don't completely understand it. I think Dr. Webb is right, that we don't need to push it. I'll remember when I remember, and if I don't… well, I guess I'll have to find some way to deal with it."

The kid sounded like he was quoting out of an encyclopedia, not talking about something that was currently happening to his brain. Jack closed his eyes briefly, trying to calm himself down. The fact that this was happening to Mac, literally the kindest person he knew, who put his life on the line every damn day to help people who didn't even know he existed, and who had been there for Jack, always, his best friend… It made Jack sick.

Mac cleared his throat, calling Jack out of his reverie. "Has, uh… has my dad come by at all?"

It was the weirdest thing, the way Mac's memory was working around the trauma he'd been through. The psychologist who'd been seeing him, Dr. Webb, had said it wasn't out of the norm for trauma patients to have selective memory regarding their trauma. Mac remembered finding his dad, even remembered that they were going after Walsh. Everything was a blank, though, after Walsh caught them.

Mac was incredibly smart, of course, and was able to fill in the gaps pretty well - he'd been able to assume pretty easily that Walsh had probably used him as leverage against his father, to make him do something, but he couldn't remember the specifics. He had no idea why his wrists were in such bad condition, why the doctors were having to rehabilitate his motor function in his hands. He didn't know why his chest was covered in bandages, being cleaned daily, why he was on so many rounds of antibiotics. He didn't know why he had a concussion, why he had bruises all over his body. He could guess, but he couldn't _remember_, and that, no matter how casually he talked about it, was obviously terrifying to him.

Jack tried not to look angry at the mention of James MacGyver - not at Mac's asking about him, of course, but the fact that the man was getting off relatively easy with Mac's not remembering what had happened. No one had let Mac see the state of his chest without the bandages yet, so Mac didn't even know about the disgusting message that Walsh had carved into Mac's flesh with his father's name.

"He came by this morning, bud, but you were sleeping. He didn't want to wake you up, but he did drop off your knife."

A distant look glazed over Mac's eyes. "My knife?" he asked, almost as if he were in a trance.

"Uh, yeah. He said he's had it for a few days now, just remembered that he hadn't given it back to you."

Mac cleared his throat, that distant gaze still present. "Can I, um… can I see it?"

Jack was getting pretty freaked out now, and hoped that he hadn't done anything wrong by mentioning the knife. He had deduced pretty quickly after killing Walsh and rescuing his kid that Mac had been tortured with his own tool, the Swiss Army Knife that had saved Mac's life, Jack's life, and a ton of other people's lives more than he could count. He'd had half a mind to chuck it in the trash as soon as James MacGyver had left it on the nightstand for his son. Jack had actually grabbed it, had his hand poised over the trash can, but he'd pocketed it instead. The knife was a part of Mac, and Mac should be the one to decide what to do with it. He'd thought, since Mac didn't remember, that it wouldn't be that big of a deal to bring it up.

He was beginning to think that he was wrong.

"Actually, kid, why don't you wait? What're you gonna use it for, anyway? You gonna repurpose the heart monitor into a Nintendo Switch or somethin'?" The joke was lame, but Jack was getting genuinely scared now.

"_Please_, Jack," Mac begged. "I can… it's _right there_, I can almost touch it, the memory…." And despite his words earlier about not pushing it, Mac looked truly desperate. "I need to know, Jack. _Please_."

Jack thought about what Mac had said earlier, about pushing a person to remember in a fugue state having the potential to cause irreversible damage, how it could revert someone to a child-like state, or erase their personality. "Maybe we should wait for the doctor, Mac…" Jack hedged. "I'll call Dr. Webb, see what he says."

"Jack." Mac looked into Jack's eyes steadily, unwavering. "I'm not going to lose my mind or anything. But I'm _so close_ to remembering, my knife triggered something. And I _need_ to know."

With shaking hands, Jack fished the knife out of his pocket and handed it to his partner, knowing that if Mac were wrong, and this broke him, Jack would never, ever be able to forgive himself. But MacGyver was so earnest in his pleas, so sure that he was not going to be altered by this, and he needed Jack. Jack couldn't refuse him, not now.

The moment Mac held the knife in his weak hands, it was like he was possessed. A blank expression blanketed his face, his eyes went bright, his breathing sped up, and it was like he was in a nightmare while awake. He was remembering, dammit! With a strength that Jack didn't think Mac possessed, the kid threw the knife across the room, curled in on himself, and began to hyperventilate, his breaths coming in harsh, quick, uneven gasps.

"Oh, nonono," Jack breathed, hitting the call button and bolting to his kid's side, holding him close, muttering reassurances.

Mac was remembering.

* * *

Ultimately, it seemed that giving Mac the knife might have been the best thing that Jack could have done for him, because after Mac had been sedated by the nurses who had rushed in at the call, Mac had awoken from the drugged sleep not in an estranged mental state, not as a child, haunted, yes, but remembering. It had been a risk, Dr. Webb admitted, but Mac had been right in that it was what he had needed. MacGyver, after all, knew his own mind better than anyone else could, and Jack knew MacGyver better than anyone else as well.

"Seriously, man, I'll get you a new one!" Jack insisted, watching Mac pensively glare at the SAK on the nightstand. "You don't have to keep starin' at that thing! We'll even get you a different color. They make 'em in blue now, I think. You like blue." Jack was rambling, but MacGyver had been fixated on that stupid knife for far too long.

"Seriously, Jack," Mac said, his voice strained but lighter than it had been in a while, "it's not going to help me to just get a new one. I've always had a Swiss Army Knife, and it's saved my life more times than I can count. Just because it was used against me, doesn't mean I should just throw it away. I have to overcome it, repurpose it for good."

"You do know you're a science geek, Mac, and not a psychologist?" Riley chuckled from where she sat next to Jack, her rig on her lap. Her fingers moved way too fast for Jack to keep up with. Mac shook his head and smiled, but Riley admitted, "But, according to this study done by a group from Harvard, you're actually right. There's a much higher chance of full mental recovery for trauma patients who face their triggers instead of avoiding them for the rest of their lives. But seriously, Mac, you don't have to 'repurpose' the knife today. We can put it away until you're ready."

"I'm seriously good," Mac assured her. "Now that I'm actually regaining more mobility in my fingers, I'm wanting to test out some ideas I have for improving the function of this bed. It raises and lowers just fine, but I think I can optimize -"

"_Please_ tell me you're not already trying to disassemble Phoenix's medical supplies, Blondie?" came an exasperated voice from the doorway.

Mac grinned. "I'm just trying to make things work a little better, that's all Matty."

"Good to see you more like your old self, Mac," Matty said sincerely. Then she grew stern again. "But don't even think about taking anything in this room apart. You're supposed to be resting and recovering, not causing trouble for the people who've been working so hard to keep you alive."

Mac sobered at this. "I can't tell you how thankful I am, Matty."

Matty's expression softened. "We're just glad to have you back, Mac." She turned to Jack and Riley. "Dalton, now that Mac is well and truly out of the woods, you _have_ to go home and take a shower, and _sleep_. You smell like a garbage truck and you look like you're an aspiring mime with those dark circles under your eyes."

"What are you talkin' about, boss lady?" Jack groused. "I've been sleeping and showering just fine here."

"Well, you need to go home and get some real rest," Matty insisted. "And Riley, I'm going to temporarily reassign you to another team. You're going to be needed for an op, so I need you in the war room ASAP."

"Got it, Matty," Riley agreed, shutting her computer and standing up. She leaned over and gave Mac a quick hug. "Glad you're doing so much better, Mac. I'll see you later."

She was gone.

Now it was just Mac, Matty, and Jack.

"Dalton, don't make me tell you again. You need sleep, and I'm going to need you for another op soon. I don't need you half-assing it on the field because you've been sleeping in a plastic chair for three weeks."

"Jack, seriously, I'm fine," Mac said, and he said it so earnestly that Jack almost began to believe him.

"All right, fine, but if anything - _anything_ -" he punctuated his words by pointing a finger at first Mac and then Matty, "-changes, call me. Okay?"

"Will do, Jack. Now, _go home._"

With Jack finally gone, Matty perched herself in the chair he had occupied. "How are you doing, Mac, really?" she asked.

"I'm okay," Mac said, a little too quickly. At Matty's raised eyebrows, he amended, "I'm not okay, but I will be. I'm still processing everything that happened to me, but it's getting easier, especially since it looks like my hands are going to be okay." He shuddered. "It was… quite honestly, the worst experience of my life, but I knew that Jack would come, and he did. So…"

"Mac, your father left," Matty interrupted.

Mac blinked. "He left?"

"For now, at least. He heard what happened with the knife, and although you're doing better now, he feels that he's done more harm than good. Oversight is going back to the shadows. He thinks it's safer for you if he does." There was a slight edge to her voice that hinted Matty did not agree.

Mac blinked, shifted in bed, and then cleared his throat nervously. "I didn't even get to talk to him again. I've been asleep every time he's come to see me." He rolled his eyes. "I bet he planned it that way too."

"I'm sorry, MacGyver," Matty said, and he could tell she meant it.

"It's not your fault, Matty," Mac sighed. "My dad… he's really, _really_ good at making excuses. He told me when I found him again that he left to protect me, but then he asked me to work beside him, so that doesn't track. And then he claimed he wanted to rebuild our relationship, but he didn't even stick around to talk to me after everything that happened. I'm realizing now that my father being Oversight doesn't really change anything. He may save the world, but he's a coward when it comes to family. And I don't need him anyway. I've got Jack."

Matty was quiet for several moments after he finished speaking. She knew that MacGyver was in a vulnerable state, with the pain medication, the trauma he had experienced, and the emotional turmoil he was going through. If he were at full health, and fully himself, he would certainly not have been so candid about his feelings.

Finally she spoke: "I know your father has made mistakes, Mac, and I don't deny that I'm angry at him for leaving when you need him. But I think he is so consumed by guilt that he can't face you right now. He does love you, but he doesn't know how to act on it."

Mac stared down at his hands. "Maybe," he said.

There was a brief silence. Matty stood up, preparing herself to leave.

Mac stopped her. "Even though things didn't go the way I planned with my dad, Matty, I wanted to thank you for leaving the clues to lead me to him."

Matty froze, dark eyes darting up to meet Mac's blue ones. "I don't know what you're talking about, MacGyver," she said evenly, but her eyes sparkled, and the corner of her lip twitched. "Now, get some rest."

And Mac was alone. He sighed, settled back into bed, exhaustion overtaking him. Before he drifted off, he glanced over to the window out into the hallway, and saw a familiar face watching him, and could have sworn he saw tears in the eyes that were always so calculating.

"Dad?"

* * *

James MacGyver locked eyes with his son, then turned and walked away. It had been a mistake to come back, to eavesdrop on the conversation between his son and Matty, to want to reconnect with him.

Angus was right. James was a coward when it came to family. One day, he would come back. But for now, he would settle with the reassurance that his son was in good hands, hands attached to a partner who cared about Angus in a way that James never could quite figure out how to do.

He would have to find a way to deal with the fact that those hands weren't his.

And James MacGyver left again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Mac fans! I've been lurking in this fandom for a long time now, but this is the first time I'm contributing something to it. (Well, there was that classic MacGyver crack fic where I explained, in terms of pop culture, how Murdoc always survives - check it out if you're interested! It's called "Murdoc: Revealed.") But this is my first foray into a reboot fan-fic.
> 
> The title is a fix for the title of the episode itself. Although I understand why it was MacGyver + MacGyver, I don't think Mac's dad being present once in years and years does anything at all to assuage the time he's been missing. Most of Mac's life, it's been MacGyver - MacGyver. I will definitely be doing some exploring of the father-son (or lack thereof) dynamic in this fic.
> 
> This fic was inspired by my most recent watch-through of the series. I loved the season 2 finale other than, perhaps, some pacing issues (but that's the show in general), but I felt that, as bad as Walsh is made out to be, he wasn't nearly as nasty as he could have been to the MacGyvers, and also, I feel like if he really had been the overwatch for James, he would be able to spot when his brainy partner is trying to pull something over on him by getting Mac to help with the serum. So I fixed it.
> 
> While Mac doesn't actually speak in first part, and it isn't from his POV, rest assured that we get his POV and hear what he has to say later on. This will probably have somewhere between 3-5 parts. I've already started the next one, so it shouldn't be long!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Please let me know your thoughts, and if you'd like to see more from me in this fandom!


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